


Welcome! Everything is...Earth.

by limin



Series: What's good? [3]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), The Good Place (TV)
Genre: Backstory, First Meetings, Fluff, Kevin is Shawn, M/M, Pre-Canon, Reluctant feeling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24207889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limin/pseuds/limin
Summary: “You know we are getting married, right?” Kevin asks, and Raymond gives him a firm nod. So sure of himself. So brave.He leans in for a kiss that Raymond gladly accepts. The concept of kissing is still too wet, even after two years and a lot of experimenting, but it is with Raymond so he can make an exception or two. Or a few thousands. He likes their little morning kisses, thank you very much.Or: Shawn’s trips to Earth that are definitely not about love and Raymond Holt. Get your mind out of the gutter, you dingus.
Relationships: Kevin Cozner/Ray Holt
Series: What's good? [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741252
Comments: 22
Kudos: 102





	1. In which Shawn get used to Earth (and get a name)

**Author's Note:**

> I’m...from Earth, and I’m also here to say that this crossover has taken over my life, so have another fic! A prequel this time of how our dads meet and get together. 
> 
> This is not beta read, but I have fun writing it anyway. And I hope you will have fun reading it too :D

“Shawn,” the Judge says, sliding him a piece of paper. 

He sighs, accepting it and flipping the damn thing over, reading it through before looking back up at her again. “You can’t honestly expect me to do this.”

“You’re the only one I’d trust to do this,” she replies, and he gags. Ugh, trust. Even when it’s trust from the Judge, it still leaves a sour taste on his tongue. 

“Just, why don’t you make Michael do this? He’s already down there playing flesh meat, might as well give him an actual job,” Shawn grumbles, though a look from the Judge shuts him up quickly. “Fine fine.”

“It won’t be that bad, I’m sure. It’s just a research trip to straighten out the scoring system, and like, you’re an expert in that whole sin thing. So, you know? Win-Win.”

“I’m an expert in that whole sin thing,” he repeats mockingly, “but the system also requires points for good deeds. Far as I know eating an apple doesn’t deserve a point, nor does charity.”

“Just, get on with it Shawn. I’m not doing it, I still have to catch up on the leftovers, thank you very much.”

He curses, looking down at the paper again and when he looks up, the Judge is gone. Fucking, typical.

* * *

He skips through the paperwork of getting the permits to get down there, what with this being official Judge assigned duty and all. Plus it’s just fun to skip through bureaucracy because some things stay the same despite Michael’s new system. 

In the end, he settles on keeping his current bodysuit - male, white, boring enough to blend in but not too much. Again, he can only fail up. He takes on a new name though, Kevin Cozner. A boring, white first name with a last name that’s just a bit better. Perfect. 

He throws the Doorman a Kermit puppet and his passport, barely listening to what Jeff has to say. All he cares about is the door that leads him to Earth, and Shawn, or well, Kevin gives him a nod before striding through. 

Kevin. He’s Kevin now. 

Usually, he would not bother changing his name, keeping it as Shawn despite whatever role he has to play in the new neighbourhood system. Shawn, the Judge of all matter this and Shawn, your friendly neighbour that, the whole play nice disgusting package.

He refuses to have an actual human identity associate with his name. 

So Kevin Cozner steps out to the street, watching the stream of people walk by and go on with their day. Just standing here, breathing in the polluted air of the city. He can already feel all the bad deeds crawling around. Greed, mostly. Lust, gluttony, the whole gang’s here. 

Focus. He’s here to make a better point system. By experiencing humanity, according to the Judge. 

Worst idea ever, but there are people smoking and that will be an immediate -2000 for every person who gets a wisp of that second-hand smoke. Easy enough. One sin down, a few more to go.

* * *

There are so many sins, Kevin thinks to himself as he marks down another page. The more major one, murder and such, is easy to sort through. Slap a huge point penalty on that and voila! But the more minor one, the barely noticeable one, or at least the one that Kevin couldn’t care less to notice is a drag.

And that’s not mentioning the good deeds. 

He sighs, opening the door to his apartment and crashes on the sofa. It’s not his cocoon, but it will do for his meat suit to just relax. And Kevin never thought he would need relaxing before, overworking is an important part of the full demon experience, but it feels good to calm down in his quiet home. 

It has not even been a week, or he thinks it has not been a week yet. There’s no Jeremy Bearimy here, time’s straight and linear and straight sucks. In any sense of the word straight.

Kevin sits up, stretching. His bone cracks, oh the d-bag at whatever department responsible for the human suit will be reprimanded later just for this, and there’s a dull ache in every movement. How do humans live with this? 

He, god, he can’t. Kevin snaps his finger, opening up a portal and steps back to the sweet sweet afterlife. 

The inside of his cocoon feels amazing, just the right temperature and moisture to properly soothe his soul. Being human sucks so bad, and that’s with him knowing he will have to be there again. And again. Until this whole thing is sorted out, even though the new testing system is working fluidly enough. 

Fucking Michael, leaving him here to deal with this. Oh, how he wishes he can have his way with the damn squid, even when he can’t touch the golden boy without getting into trouble. Or at least the kind of trouble that he likes. 

Still, he has this mess in front of him, and he can’t imagine just being down there all day slaving away to record scores and whatnot. At least up here, he can still torture people, more on the psychological side of course, but it is torture and it feels good. A shame human doesn’t have a similar system, that would have been an amazing stress relief for him.

Shawn sighs, leaning back. To be fair, he can always take up politics in his spare time, those guys always seem to be causing the most problems. The Judge doesn’t need to know that he’s pulling some string to entertain, right?

And, if he structures the policies just right, he can even collect data for this stupid system. 

Shawn grins, then cackles to himself.

* * *

“No, you can’t just stride in and mess with the humans like that,” the Judge says and Shawn frowns. “No politics. The damn place is already as chaotic as it is, I don’t need you to make it worse.”

“Oh come on,” he protests. “You can’t expect me to just be down there all day working on this. I don’t need the presidency, just a senator would be fine.”

“Shawn, no.”

“P-” he gags, and yeah, no way is he saying the P-word. He’s not that desperate, yet. Right? “Well how about writing? The papers are all lies anyway, might as well make it my own little game.”

“You?” The Judge asks, amused. He can hear the mocking that laces her words and bites back an insult. “Well, I suppose it won’t be any harm, as long as you actually do your job.”

“Of course, who do you take me for? Glenn?”

* * *

Kevin Cozner, writer for the New Yorker flows way better than just Kevin, he notes. A quick tweak and now here he is, having a proper doctorate in boring English literature or something, he doesn’t know. Or well, couldn’t bother to actually look into. 

All that matters is that he’s qualified to write for fancy smart mushy skin tags now.

Kevin grins to himself, shifting his tie and walks to a nearby crime scene, ready to ask the most boring questions he can ever ask all whilst lacing in false information. Sure, he’s part of the good guy now, but Kevin can have a little fun. As a treat.

“Hi, my name is Kevin Cozner, and I work for the New Yorker,” he asks one of the randomly selected cops, holding up a little notepad that he nicks from a place nearby. Complete the look and whatnot, after all. “I am wondering if you would be open for a quick interview regarding the drug burst?”

Note to self: figure out a proper point for drug transporting and vice versa. 

The cop nods and starts sprouting some bullshit that Kevin knows full well is not true. It’s so far away from the truth it’s laughable, but he manages to stifle down the giggle. Instead, he pretends to nod at the right beat, mentally checking over the guy he’s talking to and my god, that’s a lot of bad deeds in one person. Greed, lust, taking bribery, oh Woah. Should he even say anything about this?

Nah, the NYPD can deal with it themselves. If he’s lucky he can even jump at the chance of writing another article when that debacle happens.

He smiles at the cop, showing a bit of teeth before giving him a quick thanks and dug out of the conversation asap. It would not do for a professional writer/interviewer/whatever he is to laugh in the face of a “serving officer” after all. 

This. Is. Fun.

* * *

He places the harmless, not at all poisonous frog down on the Doorman’s table along with his passport. Jeff, predictably, brightens up at the chance of getting another pet as he lets the frog jump into his palm, cradling it close. Eug. 

“Another trip?” He asks, flicking through the pages. “That’s the third time this week, Shawn.”

“You must understand that I would much rather not be down there. However, work is work,” he answers. Or well, lies more like. Rather not be down there? He can’t wait to get down there to finish up the writing on a double homicide case. 

Jeff shrugs, stamping down on a blank page before handing the little book back. “Thanks for the frog,” he says, with a small smile. 

Ugh, gratitude. Disgusting, but he forces a smile back anyway.

* * *

“Kevin Cozner, I’m from The New Yorker,” he flashes a smile at another unnamed cop. The skin suit’s cheek aches less now when he does that, a small victory. Another one is how fast he has gone up with his reputation as a writer, my god people are eating up his words like sheep. “Do you have a minute to comment on the case?”

The cop’s stammering reminds him of Glenn, and he imagines Glenn sitting through the worst torture to cope with the stream of words that can be summarised into “I’m not the lead detective, can I redirect you to a good source?”

He nods, trades peasantries before hightailing out because he can only put up with so many newbie nervousnesses before he wants to strangle someone. At least he got a name out of this, Raymond Holt.


	2. In which Shawn catches feeling (ugh)

“Hi, my name is Kevin Cozner, and I am a writer for the New Yorker. I was told to contact Raymond Holt for information regarding the recent solve of the rare books robbery?” Kevin says into the phone, twirling his pen in the other hand. 

“Of course, let me redirect you,” the voice on the other side answers, and Kevin nods before remembering he’s just on a normal voice call. 

“If it won’t be of bother.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Cozner.”

He hums, waiting as the voices cut off for a second. Patience is a virtue, and he has all the time in the universe after all. Ugh, he actually uses the word virtue like he’s those useless sacks on the old Good Place committee. And implying that he has any virtue of his own, dear God. 

There’s a click, and he turns his attention to the phone again to hear a new voice. “Hello, this is detective Raymond Holt of precinct 78th. To whom am I speaking to?” 

“Good day detective Holt. This is Kevin Cozner, I work for the New Yorker,” he repeats himself, though the little intro will never get old in his mind. It’s like playing the almighty Judge again, but more mortal. “I am told to contact you for information regarding the recent solve of the rare books robbery?”

“You have come to the right person, Mr. Cozner.”

“Doctor Cozner,” he absently corrects. Kevin does not have a (cheat) degree in English for nothing. A quick talk with Bad Janet and his educational background is so perfect it hurts to look at.

“My apology, Doctor Cozner,” Raymond replies, and is that a note of awe in his voice? Huh, he was expecting annoyance, not something positive like this. It is common knowledge that people get pissed off when you correct them, right? “I take it you have lots of questions about this. I am all yours.”

“Well, let’s not waste time then. Would you mind giving me a short summary of the case, as a start?”

“As you may already know, the short dialogues of Symphorien Champier and Hadrian Barlandus were stolen from its place on Sunday, around 8:27 pm from the gallery near Central Park.”

“Oh, by Jacob Geel? 1519, is it not?”

“Have you heard of it?”

“I’m a big fan,” he lies easily. He is a big fan of Jacob's scream at least. “Do you read a lot of classic literature?”

“It is a big part of my leisure time, I have to admit,” Raymond says and Kevin privately gags. Boring. He tunes down Raymond’s explanation about how they caught the robber, taking some notes but letting his mind wander. 

“It is a rather open and shut case then?”

“Like a closed book, doctor Cozner.”

His own chuckle catches himself off guard, and Kevin pauses. His hands stop writing, neat notes that divert halfway into bee doodles on the margin and woah. He really did just laugh at a horrible pun, huh? He doesn’t even think Raymond has it in him. “You can say that again.”

“Like a closed book, doctor Cozner.”

Another laugh, must be because of how boring the past minutes have been that even a bad joke can get to him. “And you heroically save the day and put the criminal behind bars?”

“Put him in bind,” Raymond answers, pausing, then continues “Blind-stamped calf bind, so to say.”

Kevin wonders if Raymond knows that is how the Bad Place tortured a few more notorious writers, calf stamping them, literally. He fully blames the fact that a cop has accidentally come that close to a truth that makes him laugh aloud this time. 

“You’re hilarious,” he doesn’t lie. He can also feel a smugness radiating from Raymond despite them being miles apart. “Have you thought about going into comedy instead, detective?”

“My heart has always been with the police service as it is.”

“One would think that putting your life on the line for strangers without thanks nor recognition is not a dream occupation.”

“Someone has to keep the law and order in the city. Plus,” Raymond pauses again, longer than the last one. It feels less like a setup of a joke, and despite himself, Kevin leans forward, curious. “It is not without recognition, not when you are interviewing me.”

“For the New Yorker, yes,” he confirms.

“Of course. A very prestigious paper, with a talented writer to boot.”

“I can only take this so far, it is the case and the personality that shines through. I have a feeling the publisher will love this installment.”

“High praise,” Raymond says after a beat of silence. “Thank you.”

Gratitude. Gross, even worse when it comes from the detective who has no idea that Kevin has plans to flux this article, makes everything go horribly wrong, smear the NYPD name. 

He almost says thank you back, like this is some Good Place BS. “You’re welcome. It has been very nice talking to you, Detective.”

“Call me Raymond.”

“I insist that you must call me Kevin, then.”

* * *

He isn’t sure about the how, but when Kevin ends the call he has a date to a nearby restaurant in a few hours.

* * *

He walks into the restaurant, taking a swift look around the new setting. He has never properly eaten human food before this, small perks of not being quite human as he is so this oughta be interesting. The act of eating is so gross and disgusting, maybe he will take a liking to it. 

A quick conversation with the waiter leads him to a table in the far corner, reserved under Raymond’s name and he leans back on the comfortable chair. Raymond is still not here, understandable seeing how he is 15 minutes early from their agreed time. It is proper demonic etiquette to get there early and act like the rest of your group is late and start insulting them and eventually make the rest of their day hell after all. Either that or make a dramatic late entrance, but Kevin doubt he can do that in this type of restaurant.

Raymond comes 10 minutes earlier, so he only has to sit there for an excruciating 5 minutes of watching other people in this place enjoying themselves. Point total so far, they are all going to the (reformed) Bad Place, despite the new and improving point system. Kevin is sure Raymond will just be another dot, that this little “date” would be entertaining for the night before he can fuck off back to the afterlife. 

Raymond, who is qualified for the Good Place, walks in. Kevin does a double-take when he walks through the door, a little point total floating above him in green number. That’s...new, to say the least. He doesn’t meet a lot of positive pointers, people who get a free pass to fly to the Good Place. Hell, Raymond is what? The third one in this godforsaken city, maybe. 

Consider his curiosity piqued. 

“Good evening,” he greets Raymond with a smile when the man makes his way to the table, standing up and offering his hand for a polite handshake. Raymond’s grip is firm and authoritative, and despite the fact that he hates human contact the handshake feels nice. Warm. “I have to say, you were not what I expected when I first agreed to the date.”

There’s no obvious emotion shown on Raymond’s face, but he can tell that there is a frown somewhere there. Ah, humans and their paranoia. Amusing. 

“You’re so much better,” he continues, surprisingly not a lie on his part, feeling and point wise.

His date (ugh, date) relaxes visibly. 

“The same can be said to you, Kevin,” Raymond replies, taking a seat and he settles down too. “How are you?”

“I have been doing good, all things considered.” Things being he somehow has gotten a date with a goody-two-shoes. Would dating Kevin lower his score? Can he, what’s the word, corrupt Raymond? “And how have you been?”

“Good. My workday has been satisfactory and the interview is the highlight of the week, dare I say.”

Boring, clinical, with only the slightest of tone change when he said the word interview. He wants to break it, this weird cold mask Raymond has on. He comes close, several times throughout the night as they wine and dine. He lets Raymond order and eats something horribly bland without complaint, even going so far as to say he likes his food like that. 

Raymond actually smiles at that terrible lie.

Raymond. The man is a paradox of boring and interesting, Kevin can say that at least. He has looked into Raymond before the date, a few cases with his name attached, but hearing the story from his mouth is a different experience. How can someone who hates any amount of salt and pepper whatsoever in his meal also went on a car chase, drug bust, is an expert in marksmanship and more. 

And he’s a soon-to-be Good Place resident. It shouldn’t make sense. He has a lot on his hands. Kevin has a feeling his file is a bigger stack of papers than usual, one that he is itching to read. He can pull a few strings and get the book with Raymond’s name, with how close he is working with Accounting on this reformed point system.

That’s the only reason Kevin accepts Raymond's personal telephone number with a promise of a second date. Because it doesn’t make sense, and as he has learned with Michael, sometimes that kind of thing is good. Or at least interesting to look into.

* * *

The second date happened and they talked about philosophy (Chidi’s lecture comes to mind and gives him a lot to go off about.) The third date is a stroll in the park, and this time it’s a comforting silence. The fourth date is at Raymond’s, enjoying his collection of classical music. 

The fact that it is so bland and boring to be with Raymond is why he’s coming back, Kevin tells himself. He needs a break every now and then from the filth of New York and the even worse filth of the afterlife, and Raymond is a surprise spot of positivity. It’s just a break for himself, when he doesn’t have to think about anything. There’s no need to fill the silence.

* * *

It’s for himself, entirely.

This is him using Raymond for his own selfish need, him using Raymond as a stress reliever because sometimes summarising the plot of the Entourage to Will just doesn’t hit right. The man is still stuck in his own fake Good Place, on his whatever nth attempt and Kevin usually swings by but now he couldn’t care less. 

When was the last time he even went back to the afterlife anyway?

* * *

This is for his own entertainment exclusively, nothing more and nothing less. It’s like prostitution if Kevin has to compare. Just with more calm orchestral music and less fucking.

* * *

He kisses Raymond on the fifth date, the way he has seen humans smash their mouth together to feel something. It’s wet, wetter than Kevin would have liked, not that he doesn’t know about it prior to this. He has dabbled in lust, but kissing Raymond is different. It’s not all tongue and teeth, fast, vicious but that doesn’t mean that it’s any less passionate.

Kevin doesn’t know a slow kiss can have so much emotion in it, but he doesn’t know a lot before Raymond. 

He traces his lips when Raymond left, absently remembering the lingering taste of his...boyfriend.

It feels cold even when the weather is nice outside, and it takes him a moment to realise that it’s because Raymond is not here with him, beside him.   
  
His mind short-circuits, and a familiar phrase plays. Well holy motherforking shirtball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeey, it's been a while huh? A bit caught up with my other fics, but hey, finally got this done (or maybe you're just in the Bad Place where updates comes at the weirdest of time. Take your pick.)  
> Either way, I hope you enjoy this *very* late installment! Have some endnotes:
> 
> Raymond’s jokes always somehow hit too close to old torture methods and Kevin can’t help but laugh aloud. The more normal one he still laugh at because Shawn's sense of humour is just That Bad. You can fight me on this.
> 
> Raymond: You've been needling poor Peralta so much you've practically made him a new suit.
> 
> Kevin/Shawn, remembering that time the old bad place did make a needle suit for a guy, and that time they did make a guy into a suit, and that time with Chidi: Even when we’re fighting you’re hilarious, stop it. Stop it.
> 
> Also, the book theft was an actual case, with some details tweaked for the fic. There was another book beside Jacob’s that was stolen in NY, but yeah, it’s really fun to read up about.
> 
> Also also, I have just made a quick side Tumblr, so heads on over if you wanna chat or just request stuff or send in ask and such such. I'm [@onemilisec](https://onemilisec.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I will see you next update, but until then, go do something good :)


End file.
